Bandaged Fingertips
by Nationless
Summary: Roderich's music teacher has rather eccentric methods of drilling the music into his head. Ten hour practices, and cuts are common punishments. When he shows up with bloody fingers again, how will Gil, the new transfer student, respond? Little drabble off-shoot of The Storyteller, but they don't need to be read together.


**Author's Note: **Ok, I know I'm supposed to be working on The Storyteller right now, but… This was just way too tempting to pass up. I felt like I have to save Gilly all the time, and Roderich needs a chance to be vulnerable now and then.

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or its characters. They are property of Himaruya, not this poor little child.

~X~

Roderich's entire body was sore. His music teacher forced him to practice until almost three in the morning, and he was now feeling the pain in his back and shoulders. Five new bandages adorned his fingers, and a faint sting could still be felt from the cuts. It had been, in short, a brutal lesson.

Less than two hours in, Miss Cora Mitchells had already sliced two of his fingers and ordered an extra hour to his lesson. Sometimes, Roderich wondered why he continued learning from her when all she did was torment him.

Roderich rolled his shoulders, hoping to alleviate some of the stiffness. At this moment, he was wishing he had just stayed home. He could probably convince his parents he was sick. They were an ocean away; they wouldn't know any better. Besides, it wasn't like anyone but his teachers would notice.

Well, and possibly the new transfer student, Gilbert Beilschmidt.

Even the thought of his name irked the Austrian. Within less than a month of being here, Gilbert had proved himself to be a nuisance, and an annoyance to the musician. He had stolen Roderich's sheet music, taken his glasses (although he didn't actually need them to see), and even went so far as to follow him home on several occasions.

In short, Roderich despised Gilbert, and he was pretty sure the feeling was mutual.

Unfortunately, Gil showed his dislike for the musician by being too close, and harassing the other as much as he possibly could. Every time Roderich was in his vicinity, Gilbert came running to bother him.

Sure enough, as soon as Gil could see that Roderich had arrived, the albino made a beeline towards him. Several students were shoved out of the way by the exuberant German.

"Hey, Specs!" he greeted cheerfully.

Roderich suppressed a sigh. "My name is not 'Specs', Gilbert," he reminded him. "I know I've said this several times already, but my name is Roderich."

He shrugged, and proceeded to muss the brunette's hair. "But it's so much quicker to say than 'Roderich'. And it makes you sound like less of a tight-ass."

With a grimace, he swatted the other's hand away. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with my name. I would appreciate it if you would address me by it."

Gil whistled lowly. "Someone's pissy today. What gives, Little Master?"

Roderich glared at the other teen. "I'm not being 'pissy', and that's still not my name."

A short chuckle bubbled from the other's lips. "Fine, fine. 'Roderich, you seem irritable today. What gives?' Is that better?"

Roderich massaged his temple and squeezed his eyes shut. This idiot was beginning to give him a headache. "If you must know, it was a rather late night. I'm a bit tired, that's all."

He caught as Gil's red eyes flicked to his hand before returning to his gaze. "Something happen to your hand? You're always wearing those damned bandages. Are your fingers just gross-looking, or are you just always getting hurt?"

Roderich froze, feeling like something just snapped in his mind. No one ever mentioned that. Even his best friend, Elizaveta, had never commented on them.

Carefully, he scrutinized the white-haired student. This conversation could go one of two ways. Either Gilbert would find out, or Roderich would find a way to keep his secret.

If the former happened…. Roderich chanced a look at Gil's hands. His knuckles were still bruised from his little 'altercation' with the flirty Parisian last week. He didn't think he would go that far with Miss Cora, but still. That was a risk Roderich wasn't sure he was going to take.

Besides, he didn't want to have Gilbert see him as 'lesser' or weak. He was already called 'priss' and 'pansy'; what would Gil do if he found out that Roderich was actually weaker than he already assumed?

"My hand is fine," he muttered. Best he try to convince Gilbert that there was nothing wrong.

"Well, we all can see _that's_ a lie." Unexpectedly, Gil grabbed Roderich's wrist and pulled, examining his hand closely.

Roderich's cheeks heated up. "Gil, let me go." He tried to pull away from the German's grip.

Gil kept his grasp strong, proving the pianist's efforts futile. "These are cuts, aren't they? I can see a bit of blood…." His crimson gaze flickered back up to Roderich's. "So are you a klutz, or…?"

This time when Roderich tried to yank his hand back, Gilbert let him go. "I said it's nothing," he hissed. "Drop it."

There was a lengthy pause between the two of them. Gil's eyes appraised him, seeming to probe for the truth. Eventually, he sighed. "Fine, whatever you say, priss." With a shrug, he turned to make his way back to his new friends; the Spaniard and the Frenchman he beat up.

A relieved smile tugged Roderich's mouth. "Thank you."

"Yeah, yeah. It's only cuz I'm so awesome that I'll let you get away with this." Gilbert stopped for a second, and looked over to Roderich once more. "But don't let it happen again. I'm the only one who can pick on you, got it? So don't go letting other people bully you anymore."

Staring in shock at the retreating albino, Roderich considered his words. Why exactly did Gilbert care if other people were bothering him? Was it a sign of protection, or was it just another way to control him? What would happen if Roderich were to actually take Gil's words to heart, and get rid of Miss Cora?

'Well, what's the worst that could happen?' his mind whispered. 'It's not like you actually enjoy her lessons.'

He sighed. Maybe, then. It's not like he would lose much if he walked away from his music teacher.

~X~

Nervously, Roderich fidgeted with his collar. His teacher was due to arrive any moment, and he had made his decision. Today was the day he finally got rid of Miss Cora, and all the pain she caused him.

He straightened up as he heard the door open. Immediately, his posture shifted from timid and afraid, to haughty and proud. It was show time.

"You're fired," Roderich announced as Miss Cora entered his house.

She stopped dead, blue eyes wide. "Excuse me?"

Instinctively, he jerked his chin up. "You heard me. You're fired. Don't come back to this place again. Do you understand? I'm done." He paused, and leveled a frigid glare at her. "Get out."

There was a moment of pure tension where Roderich thought he was going to break. But, seconds before he could snap under the pressure, she turned on her heel, and stomped out.

For almost fifteen minutes, Roderich stood there, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Once it finally hit him, half-hysterical laughter broke the silence.

Free. He was finally free from all-night practices and constant cuts on his fingertips. No longer would he have to clean blood from the ivory keys, nor the strings of his precious violin.

~X~

For the first time in a while, Roderich smiled as he played the piano. Chopin's Tristesse. In the background, he could hear the music room's window slide open, and someone climb through.

He didn't stop playing. He was pretty sure it was no one but Gilbert anyways. Heavy footsteps lead the mystery stranger to the piano bench where he sat right next to Roderich.

"You stopped wearing bandages on your fingers," Gil observed as soon as the closing notes faded into silence.

His smile widened slightly. "I no longer have to," he said simply.

Once again, Gil closely examined his fingertips. "Huh. They're perfectly normal. Here I was expecting your hands to look all disgusting. How boring."

Roderich chuckled softly. "I'm not convinced that's a bad thing."


End file.
